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Title: As a Matter of Course

Author: Annie Payson Call

Posting Date: July 26, 2009 [EBook #4385]
Release Date: August, 2003
First Posted: January 20, 2002

Language: English

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Produced by Steve Solomon

AS A MATTER OF COURSE

BY

ANNIE PAYSON CALL

Author of "Power Through Repose," "The Freedom of Life,"

"Nerves and Common Sense," Etc.

1894

PREFACE.

THE aim of this book is to assist towards the removal of nervous irritants, which are not only the cause of
much physical disease, but materially interfere with the best possibilities of usefulness and pleasure in
everyday life.

CONTENTS.

I. INTRODUCTION
II. PHYSICAL CARE

III. AMUSEMENTS

IV. BRAIN IMPRESSIONS
V. THE TRIVIALITY OF TRIVIALITIES
VI. MOODS
VII. TOLERANCE
VIII. SYMPATHY

IX. OTHERS
X. ONE'S SELF
XI. CHILDREN
XII. ILLNESS
XIII. SENTIMENT VERSUS SENTIMENTALITY
XIV. PROBLEMS
XV. SUMMARY

AS A MATTER OF COURSE

I.

INTRODUCTION.

IN climbing a mountain, if we know the path and take it as a matter of course, we are free to enjoy the beauties of

the surrounding country. If in the same journey we set a stone in the way and recognize our ability to step over it, we do
so at once, and save ourselves from tripping or from useless waste of time and thought as to how we might best go
round it.

There are stones upon stones in every-day life which might be stepped over with perfect ease, but which, curiously

enough, are considered from all sides and then tripped upon; and the result is a stubbing of the moral toes, and a
consequent irritation of the nervous system. Or, if semi-occasionally one of these stones is stepped over as a matter of
course, the danger is that attention is immediately called to the action by admiring friends, or by the person himself, in a
way so to tickle the nervous system that it amounts to an irritation, and causes him to trip over the next stone, and finally
tumble on his nose. Then, if he is not wise enough to pick himself up and walk on with the renewed ability of stepping
over future stones, he remains on his nose far longer than is either necessary or advisable.

These various stones in the way do more towards keeping a nervous system in a chronic state of irritation than is

imagined. They are what might perhaps be called the outside elements of life. These once normally faced, cease to exist
as impediments, dwindle away, and finally disappear altogether.

Thus we are enabled to get nearer the kernel, and have a growing realization of life itself.

Civilization may give a man new freedom, a freedom beyond any power of description or conception, except to

those who achieve it, or it may so bind him body and soul that in moments when he recognizes his nervous contractions
he would willingly sell his hope of immortality to be a wild horse or tiger for the rest of his days.

These stones in the way are the result of a perversion of civilization, and the cause of much contraction and

unnecessary suffering.

There is the physical stone. If the health of the body were attended to as a matter of course, as its cleanliness is

attended to by those of us who are more civilized, how much easier life might be! Indeed, the various trippings on, and
endeavors to encircle, this physical stone, raise many phantom stones, and the severity of the fall is just as great when
one trips over a stone that is not there. Don Quixote was quite exhausted when he had been fighting the windmills. One
recognizes over and over the truth spoken by the little girl who, when reprimanded by her father for being fretful, said:
"It isn't me, papa, it's that banana."

There is also the over-serious stone; and this, so far from being stepped over or any effort made to encircle it, is

often raised to the undue dignity of a throne, and not rested upon. It seems to produce an inability for any sort of
recreation, and a scorn of the necessity or the pleasure of being amused. Every one will admit that recreation is one
swing of life's pendulum; and in proportion to the swing in that direction will be the strength of the swing in the other

direction, and vice versa.

One kind of stone which is not the least among the self-made impediments is the microscopic faculty which most of

us possess for increasing small, inoffensive pebbles to good-sized rocks. A quiet insistence on seeing these pebbles in
their natural size would reduce them shortly to a pile of sand which might be easily smoothed to a level, and add to the
comfort of the path. Moods are stones which not only may be stepped over, but kicked right out of the path with a
good bold stroke. And the stones of intolerance may be replaced by an open sympathy,—an ability to take the other's
point of view,—which will bring flowers in the path instead.

In dealing with ourselves and others there are stones innumerable, if one chooses to regard them, and a steadily

decreasing number as one steps over and ignores. In our relations with illness and poverty, so-called, the ghosts of
stones multiply themselves as the illness or the poverty is allowed to be a limit rather than a guide. And there is nothing
that exorcises all such ghosts more truly than a free and open intercourse with little children.

If we take this business of slipping over our various nerve-stones as a matter of course, and not as a matter of

sentiment, we get a powerful result just as surely as we get powerful results in obedience to any other practical laws.

In bygone generations men used to fight and kill one another for the most trivial cause. As civilization increased,

self-control was magnified into a virtue, and the man who governed himself and allowed his neighbor to escape unslain
was regarded as a hero. Subsequently, general slashing was found to be incompatible with a well-ordered community,
and forbearance in killing or scratching or any other unseemly manner of attacking an enemy was taken as a matter of
course.

Nowadays we do not know how often this old desire to kill is repressed, a brain-impression of hatred thereby

intensified, and a nervous irritation caused which has its effect upon the entire disposition. It would hardly be feasible to
return to the killing to save the irritation that follows repression; civilization has taken us too far for that. But civilization
does not necessarily mean repression. There are many refinements of barbarity in our civilization which might be
dropped now, as the coarser expressions of such states were dropped by our ancestors to enable them to reach the
present stage of knives and forks and napkins. And inasmuch as we are farther on the way towards a true civilization,
our progress should be more rapid than that of our barbaric grandfathers. An increasingly accelerated progress has
proved possible in scientific research and discovery; why not, then, in our practical dealings with ourselves and one
another?

Does it not seem likely that the various forms of nervous irritation, excitement, or disease may result as much from

the repressed savage within us as from the complexity of civilization? The remedy is, not to let the savage have his own
way; with many of us, indeed, this would be difficult, because of the generations of repression behind us. It is to cast his
skin, so to speak, and rise to another order of living.

Certainly repression is only apparent progress. No good physician would allow it in bodily disease, and, on careful

observation, the law seems to hold good in other phases of life.

There must be a practical way by which these stones, these survivals of barbaric times, may be stepped over and

made finally to disappear.

The first necessity is to take the practical way, and not the sentimental. Thus true sentiment is found, not lost.

The second is to follow daily, even hourly, the process of stepping over until it comes to be indeed a matter of

course. So, little by little, shall we emerge from this mass of abnormal nervous irritation into what is more truly life itself.

II.

PHYSICAL CARE.

REST, fresh air, exercise, and nourishment, enough of each in proportion to the work done, are the material

essentials to a healthy physique. Indeed, so simple is the whole process of physical care, it would seem absurd to write
about it at all. The only excuse for such writing is the constant disobedience to natural laws which has resulted from the
useless complexity of our civilization.

There is a current of physical order which, if one once gets into it, gives an instinct as to what to do and what to

leave undone, as true as the instinct which leads a man to wash his hands when they need it, and to wash them often
enough so that they never remain soiled for any length of time, simply because that state is uncomfortable to their owner.
Soap and water are not unpleasant to most of us in their process of cleansing; we have to deny ourselves nothing
through their use. To keep the digestion in order, it is often necessary to deny ourselves certain sensations of the palate

which are pleasant at the time. So by a gradual process of not denying we are swung out of the instinctive nourishment-
current, and life is complicated for us either by an amount of thought as to what we should or should not eat, or by
irritations which arise from having eaten the wrong food. It is not uncommon to find a mind taken up for some hours in
wondering whether that last piece of cake will digest. We can easily see how from this there might be developed a
nervous sensitiveness about eating which would prevent the individual from eating even the food that is nourishing. This
last is a not unusual form of dyspepsia,—a dyspepsia which keeps itself alive on the patient's want of nourishment.

Fortunately the process of getting back into the true food-current is not difficult if one will adopt it The trouble is in

making the bold plunge. If anything is eaten that is afterwards deemed to have been imprudent, let it disagree. Take the
full consequences and bear them like a man, with whatever remedies are found to lighten the painful result. Having made
sure through bitter experience that a particular food disagrees, simply do not take it again, and think nothing about it. It
does not exist for you. A nervous resistance to any sort of indigestion prolongs the attack and leaves, a brain-
impression which not only makes the same trouble more liable to recur, but increases the temptation to eat forbidden
fruit. Of course this is always preceded by a full persuasion that the food is not likely to disagree with us now simply
because it did before. And to some extent, this is true. Food that will bring pain and suffering when taken by a tired
stomach, may prove entirely nourishing when the stomach is rested and ready for it. In that case, the owner of the
stomach has learned once for all never to give his digestive apparatus work to do when it is tired. Send a warm drink as
a messenger to say that food is coming later, give yourself a little rest, and then eat your dinner. The fundamental laws of
health in eating are very simple; their variations for individual needs must be discovered by each for himself.

"But," it may be objected, "why make all this fuss, why take so much thought about what I eat or what I do not

eat?" The special thought is simply to be taken at first to get into the normal habit, and as a means of forgetting our
digestion just as we forget the washing of our hands until we are reminded by some discomfort; whereupon we wash
them and forget again. Nature will not allow us to forget. When we are not obeying her laws, she is constantly irritating
us in one way or another. It is when we obey, and obey as a matter of course, that she shows herself to be a tender
mother, and helps us to a real companionship with her.

Nothing is more amusing, nothing could appeal more to Mother Nature's sense of humor, than the various devices

for exercise which give us a complicated self-consciousness rather than a natural development of our physical powers.
Certain simple exercises are most useful, and if the weather is so inclement that they cannot be taken in the open air, it is
good to have a well-ventilated hall. Exercise with others, too, is stimulating, and more invigorating when there is air
enough and to spare. But there is nothing that shows the subjective, self-conscious state of this generation more than the
subjective form which exercise takes. Instead of games and play or a good vigorous walk in the country, there are
endless varieties of physical culture, most of it good and helpful if taken as a means to an end, but almost useless as it is
taken as an end in itself; for it draws the attention to one's self and one's own muscles in a way to make the owner serve
the muscle instead of the muscle being made to serve the owner. The more physical exercise can be simplified and
made objective, the more it serves its end. To climb a high mountain is admirable exercise, for we have the summit as an
end, and the work of climbing is steadily objective, while we get the delicious effect of a freer circulation and all that it
means. There might be similar exercises in gymnasiums, and there are, indeed, many exercises where some objective
achievement is the end, and the training of a muscle follows as a matter of course. There is the exercise-instinct; we all
have it the more perfectly as we obey it. If we have suffered from a series of disobediences, it is a comparatively easy
process to work back into obedience.

The fresh-air-instinct is abnormally developed with some of us, but only with some. The popular fear of draughts is

one cause of its loss. The fear of a draught will cause a contraction, the contraction will interfere with the circulation, and
a cold is the natural result.

The effect of vitiated air is well known. The necessity, not only for breathing fresh air when we are quiet, but for

exercising in the open, grows upon us as we see the result. To feel the need is to take the remedy, as a matter of
course.

The rest-instinct is most generally disobeyed, most widely needed, and obedience to it would bring the most

effective results. A restful state of mind and body prepares one for the best effects from exercise, fresh air, and
nourishment. This instinct is the more disobeyed because with the need for rest there seems to come an inability to take
it, so that not only is every impediment magnified, but imaginary impediments are erected, and only a decided and
insistent use of the will in dropping everything that interferes, whether real or imaginary, will bring a whiff of a breeze
from the true rest-current. Rest is not always silence, but silence is always rest; and a real silence of the mind is known
by very few. Having gained that, or even approached it, we are taken by the rest-wind itself, and it is strong enough to
bear our full weight as it swings us along to renewed life and new strength for work to come.

The secret is to turn to silence at the first hint from nature; and sleep should be the very essence of silence itself.

All this would be very well if we were free to take the right amount of rest, fresh air, exercise, and nourishment; but

many of us are not. It will not be difficult for any one to call to mind half a dozen persons who impede the good which
might result from the use of these four necessities simply by complaining that they cannot have their full share of either.
Indeed, some of us may find in ourselves various stones of this sort stopping the way. To take what we can and be
thankful, not only enables us to gain more from every source of health, but opens the way for us to see clearly how to

get more. This complaint, however, is less of an impediment than the whining and fussing which come from those who
are free to take all four in abundance, and who have the necessity of their own especial physical health so much at heart
that there is room to think of little else. These people crowd into the various schools of physical culture by the hundred,
pervade the rest-cures, and are ready for any new physiological fad which may arise, with no result but more physical
culture, more rest-cure, and more fads. Nay, there is sometimes one other result,—disease. That gives them something
tangible to work for or to work about. But all their eating and breathing and exercising and resting does not bring lasting
vigorous health, simply because they work at it as an end, of which self is the centre and circumference.

The sooner our health-instinct is developed, and then taken as a matter of course, the sooner can the body become

a perfect servant, to be treated with true courtesy, and then forgotten. Here is an instinct of our barbarous ancestry
which may be kept and refined through all future phases of civilization. This instinct is natural, and the obedience to it
enables us to gain more rapidly in other, higher instincts which, if our ancestors had at all, were so embryonic as not to
have attained expression.

Nourishment, fresh air, exercise, rest,—so far as these are not taken simply and in obedience to the natural instinct,

there arise physical stones in the way, stones that form themselves into an apparently insurmountable wall. There is a
stile over that wall, however, if we will but open our eyes to see it. This stile, carefully climbed, will enable us to step
over the few stones on the other side, and follow the physical path quite clearly.

III.

AMUSEMENTS.

THE ability to be easily and heartily amused brings a wholesome reaction from intense thought or hard work of any

kind which does more towards keeping the nervous system in a normal state than almost anything else of an external
kind.

As a Frenchman very aptly said: "This is all very well, all this study and care to relieve one's nerves; but would it

not be much simpler and more effective to go and amuse one's self?" The same Frenchman could not realize that in
many countries amusement is almost a lost art. Fortunately, it is not entirely lost; and the sooner it is regained, the nearer
we shall be to health and happiness.

One of the chief impediments in the way of hearty amusement is over-seriousness. There should be two words for

"serious," as there are literally two meanings. There is a certain intense form of taking the care and responsibility of one's
own individual interests, or the interests of others which are selfishly made one's own, which leads to a surface-
seriousness that is not only a chronic irritation of the nervous system, but a constant distress to those who come under
this serious care. This is taking life au grand serieux. The superficiality of this attitude is striking, and would be
surprising could the sufferer from such seriousness once see himself (or more often it is herself) in a clear light. It is quite
common to call such a person over-serious, when in reality he is not serious enough. He or she is laboring under a sham
seriousness, as an actor might who had such a part to play and merged himself in the character. These people are
simply exaggerating their own importance to life, instead of recognizing life's importance to them. An example of this is
the heroine of Mrs. Ward's "Robert Elsmere," who refused to marry because the family could not get on without her;
and when finally she consented, the family lived more happily and comfortably than when she considered herself their
leader. If this woman's seriousness, which blinded her judgment, had been real instead of sham, the state of the case
would have been quite clear to her; but then, indeed, there would have been no case at all.

When seriousness is real, it is never intrusive and can never be overdone. It is simply a quiet, steady obedience to

recognized laws followed as a matter of course, which must lead to a clearer appreciation of such laws, and of our own
freedom in obeying them. Whereas with a sham seriousness we dwell upon the importance of our own relation to the
law, and our own responsibility in forcing others to obey. With the real, it is the law first, and then my obedience. With
the sham, it is myself first, and then the laws; and often a strained obedience to laws of my own making.

This sham seriousness, which is peculiarly a New England trait, but may also be found in many other parts of the

world, is often the perversion of a strong, fine nature. It places many stones in the way, most of them phantoms, which,
once stepped over and then ignored, brings to light a nature nobly expansive, and a source of joy to all who come in
contact with it. But so long as the "seriousness" lasts, it is quite incompatible with any form of real amusement.

For the very essence of amusement is the child-spirit. The child throws himself heartily and spontaneously into the

game, or whatever it may be, and forgets that there is anything else in the world, for the time being. Children have
nothing else to remember. We have the advantage of them there, in the pleasure of forgetting and in the renewed
strength with which we can return to our work or care, in consequence. Any one who cannot play children's games with
children, and with the same enjoyment that children have, does not know the spirit of amusement. For this same spirit
must be taken into all forms of amusement, especially those that are beyond the childish mind, to bring the delicious

reaction which nature is ever ready to bestow. This is almost a self-evident truth; and yet so confirmed is man in his
sham maturity that it is quite common to see one look with contempt, and a sense of superiority which is ludicrous, upon
another who is enjoying a child's game like a child. The trouble is that many of us are so contracted in and oppressed by
our own self-consciousness that open spontaneity is out of the question and even inconceivable. The sooner we shake it
off, the better. When the great philosopher said, "Except ye become as little children," he must have meant it all the way
through in spirit, if not in the letter. It certainly is the common-sense view, whichever way we look at it, and proves as
practical as walking upon one's feet.

With the spontaneity grows the ability to be amused, and with that ability comes new power for better and really

serious work.

To endeavor with all your might to win, and then if you fail, not to care, relieves a game of an immense amount of

unnecessary nervous strain. A spirit of rivalry has so taken hold of us and become such a large stone in the way, that it
takes wellnigh a reversal of all our ideas to realize that this same spirit is quite compatible with a good healthy willingness
that the other man should win—if he can. Not from the goody-goody motive of wishing your neighbor to beat,—no
neighbor would thank you for playing with him in that spirit,—but from a feeling that you have gone in to beat, you have
done your best, as far as you could see, and where you have not, you have learned to do better. The fact of beating is
not of paramount importance. Every man should have his chance, and, from your opponent's point of view, provided
you were as severe on him as you knew how to be at the time, it is well that he won. You will see that it does not
happen again.

Curious it is that the very men or women who would scorn to play a child's game in a childlike spirit, will show the

best known form of childish fretfulness and sheer naughtiness in their way of taking a game which is considered to be
more on a level with the adult mind, and so rasp their nerves and the nerves of their opponents that recreation is simply
out of the question.

Whilst one should certainly have the ability to enjoy a child's game with a child and like a child, that not only does

not exclude the preference which many, perhaps most of us may have for more mature games, it gives the power to
play those games with a freedom and ease which help to preserve a healthy nervous system.

If, however, amusement is taken for the sole purpose of preserving a normal nervous system, or for returning to

health, it loses its zest just in proportion. If, as is often the case, one must force one's self to it at first, the love of the fun
will gradually come as one ignores the first necessity of forcing; and the interest will come sooner if a form of amusement
is taken quite opposite to the daily work, a form which will bring new faculties and muscles into action.

There is, of course, nothing that results in a more unpleasant state of ennui than an excess of amusement. After a

certain amount of careless enjoyment, life comes to a deadly stupid standstill, or the forms of amusement grow lower. In
either case the effect upon the nervous system is worse even than over-work.

The variety in sources of amusement is endless, and the ability to get amusement out of almost anything is delightful,

as long as it is well balanced.

After all, our amusement depends upon the way in which we take our work, and our work, again, depends upon

the amusement; they play back and forth into one another's hands.

The man or the woman who cannot get the holiday spirit, who cannot enjoy pure fun for the sake of fun, who

cannot be at one with a little child, not only is missing much in life that is clear happiness, but is draining his nervous
system, and losing his better power for work accordingly.

This anti-amusement stone once removed, the path before us is entirely new and refreshing.

The power to be amused runs in nations. But each individual is in himself a nation, and can govern himself as such;

and if he has any desire for the prosperity of his own kingdom, let him order a public holiday at regular intervals, and
see that the people enjoy it.

IV.

BRAIN IMPRESSIONS.

THE mere idea of a brain clear from false impressions gives a sense of freedom which is refreshing.

In a comic journal, some years ago, there was a picture of a man in a most self-important attitude, with two

common mortals in the background gazing at him. "What makes him stand like that?" said one. "Because," answered the
other, "that is his own idea of himself." The truth suggested in that picture strikes one aghast; for in looking about us we

see constant examples of attitudinizing in one's own idea of one's self. There is sometimes a feeling of fright as to
whether I am not quite as abnormal in my idea of myself as are those about me.

If one could only get the relief of acknowledging ignorance of one's self, light would be welcome, however given. In

seeing the truth of an unkind criticism one could forget to resent the spirit; and what an amount of nerve-friction might be
saved! Imagine the surprise of a man who, in return for a volley of abuse, should receive thanks for light thrown upon a
false attitude. Whatever we are enabled to see, relieves us of one mistaken brain-impression, which we can replace by
something more agreeable. And if, in the excitement of feeling, the mistake was exaggerated, what is that to us? All we
wanted was to see it in quality. As to degree, that lessens in proportion as the quality is bettered. Fortunately, in living
our own idea of ourselves, it is only ourselves we deceive, with possible exceptions in the case of friends who are so
used to us, or so over-fond of us, as to lose the perspective.

There is the idea of humility,—an obstinate belief that we know we are nothing at all, and deserve no credit; which,

literally translated, means we know we are everything, and deserve every credit. There is the idea, too, of immense
dignity, of freedom from all self-seeking and from all vanity. But it is idle to attempt to catalogue these various forms of
private theatricals; they are constantly to be seen about us.

It is with surprise unbounded that one hears another calmly assert that he is so-and-so or so-and-so, and in his next

action, or next hundred actions, sees that same assertion entirely contradicted. Daily familiarity with the manifestations of
mistaken brain-impressions does not lessen one's surprise at this curious personal contradiction; it gives one an
increasing desire to look to one's self, and see how far these private theatricals extend in one's own case, and to throw
off the disguise, as far as it is seen, with a full acknowledgment that there may be—probably is—an abundance more of
which to rid one's self in future. There are many ways in which true openness in life, one with another, would be of
immense service; and not the least of these is the ability gained to erase false brain-impressions.

The self-condemnatory brain-impression is quite as pernicious as its opposite. Singularly enough, it goes with it.

One often finds inordinate self-esteem combined with the most abject condemnation of self. One can be played against
the other as a counter-irritant; but this only as a process of rousing, for the irritation of either brings equal misery. I am
not even sure that as a rousing process it is ever really useful. To be clear of a mistaken brain-impression, a man must
recognize it himself; and this recognition can never be brought about by an unasked attempt of help from another. It is
often cleared by help asked and given; and perhaps more often by help which is quite involuntary and unconscious. One
of the greatest points in friendly diplomacy is to be open and absolutely frank so far as we are asked, but never to go
beyond. At least, in the experience of many, that leads more surely to the point where no diplomacy is needed, which is
certainly the point to be aimed at in friendship. It is trying to see a friend living his own idea of himself, and to be obliged
to wait until he has discovered that he is only playing a part. But this very waiting may be of immense assistance in
reducing our own moral attitudinizing.

How often do we hear others or find ourselves complaining of a fault over and over again! "I know that is a fault of

mine, and has been for years. I wish I could get over it." "I know that is a fault of mine,"—one brain-impression; "it has
been for years,"—a dozen or more brain-impressions, according to the number of years; until we have drilled the
impression of that fault in, by emphasizing it over and over, to an extent which daily increases the difficulty of dropping
it.

So, if we have the habit of unpunctuality, and emphasize it by deploring it, it keeps us always behind time. If we are

sharp-tongued, and dwell with remorse on something said in the past, it increases the tendency in the future.

The slavery to nerve habit is a well-known physiological fact; but nerve habit may be strengthened negatively as

well as positively. When this is more widely recognized, and the negative practice avoided, much will have been done
towards freeing us from our subservience to mistaken brain-impressions.

Let us take an instance: unpunctuality-for example, as that is a common form of repetition. If we really want to rid

ourselves of the habit, suppose every time we are late we cease to deplore it; make a vivid mental picture of ourselves
as being on time at the next appointment; then, with the how and the when clearly impressed upon our minds, there
should be an absolute refusal to imagine ourselves anything but early. Surely that would be quite as effective as a
constant repetition of the regret we feel at being late, whether this is repeated aloud to others, or only in our own minds.
As we place the two processes side by side, the latter certainly has the advantage, and might be tried, until a better is
found.

Of course we must beware of getting an impression of promptness which has no ground in reality. It is quite

possible for an individual to be habitually and exasperatingly late, with all the air and innocence of unusual punctuality.

It would strike us as absurd to see a man painting a house the color he did not like, and go on painting it the same

color, to show others and himself that which he detested. Is it not equally absurd for any of us, through the constant
expression of regret for a fault, to impress the tendency to it more and more upon the brain? It is intensely sad when the
consciousness of evil once committed has so impressed a man with a sense of guilt as to make him steadily undervalue
himself and his own powers.

Here is a case where one's own idea of one's self is seventy-five per cent below par; and a gentle and consistent

encouragement in raising that idea is most necessary before par is reached.

And par, as I understand it, is simple freedom from any fixed idea of one's self, either good or bad.

If fixed impressions of one's self are stones in the way, the same certainly holds good with fixed impressions of

others. Unpleasant brain-impressions of others are great weights, and greater impediments in the way of clearing our
own brains. Suppose So-and-so had such a fault yesterday; it does not follow that he has not rid himself of at least part
of it to-day. Why should we hold the brain-impression of his mistake, so that every time we look at him we make it
stronger? He is not the gainer thereby, and we certainly are the losers. Repeated brain-impressions of another's faults
prevent our discerning his virtues. We are constantly attributing to him disagreeable motives, which arise solely from our
idea of him, and of which he is quite innocent. Not only so, but our mistaken impressions increase his difficulty in rising
to the best of himself. For any one whose temperament is in the least sensitive is oppressed by what he feels to be
another's idea of him, until he learns to clear himself of that as well as of other brain-impressions.

It is not uncommon to hear one go over and over a supposed injury, or even small annoyances from others, with

the reiterated assertion that he fervently desires to forget such injury or annoyances. This fervent desire to forgive and
forget expresses itself by a repeated brain-impression of that which is to be forgiven; and if this is so often repeated in
words, how many times more must it be repeated mentally! Thus, the brain-impression is increased until at last
forgetting seems out of the question. And forgiving is impossible unless one can at the same time so entirely forget the ill-
feeling roused as to place it beyond recall.

Surely, if we realized the force and influence of unpleasant brain-impressions, it would be a simple matter to relax

and let them escape, to be replaced by others that are only pleasant It cannot be that we enjoy the discomfort of the
disagreeable impressions.

And yet, so curiously perverted is human nature that we often hear a revolting story told with the preface, "Oh, I

can't bear to think of it!" And the whole story is given, with a careful attention to detail which is quite unnecessary, even
if there were any reason for telling the story at all, and generally concluded with a repetition of the prefatory
exclamation. How many pathetic sights are told of, to no end but the repetition of an unpleasant brain-impression. How
many past experiences, past illnesses, are gone over and over, which serve the same worse than useless purpose,—that
of repeating and emphasizing the brain-impression.

A little pain is made a big one by persistent dwelling upon it; what might have been a short pain is sometimes

lengthened for a lifetime. Similarly, an old pain is brought back by recalling a brain-impression.

The law of association is well known. We all know how familiar places and happenings will recall old feelings; we

can realize this at any time by mentally reviving the association. By dwelling on the pain we had yesterday we are
encouraging it to return to-morrow. By emphasizing the impression of an annoyance of to-day we are making it possible
to suffer beyond expression from annoyances to come; and the annoyances, the pains, the disagreeable feelings will find
their old brain-grooves with remarkable rapidity when given the ghost of a chance.

I have known more than one case where a woman kept herself ill by the constant repetition, to others and to

herself, of a nervous shock. A woman who had once been frightened by burglars refused to sleep for fear of being
awakened by more burglars, thus increasing her impression of fear; and of course, if she slept at all, she was liable at
any time to wake with a nervous start. The process of working herself into nervous prostration through this constant,
useless repetition was not slow.

The fixed impressions of preconceived ideas in any direction are strangely in the way of real freedom. It is difficult

to catch new harmonies with old ones ringing in our ears; still more difficult when we persist in listening at the same time
to discords.

The experience of arguing with another whose preconceived idea is so firmly fixed that the argument is nothing but

a series of circles, might be funny if it were not sad; and it often is funny, in spite of the sadness.

Suppose we should insist upon retaining an unpleasant brain-impression, only when and so long as it seemed

necessary in order to bring a remedy. That accomplished, suppose we dropped it on the instant. Suppose, further, that
we should continue this process, and never allow ourselves to repeat a disagreeable brain-impression aloud or mentally.
Imagine the result. Nature abhors a vacuum; something must come in place of the unpleasantness; therefore way is
made for feelings more comfortable to one's self and to others.

Bad feelings cause contraction, good ones expansion. Relax the muscular contraction; take a long, free breath of

fresh air, and expansion follows as a matter of course. Drop the brain-contraction, take a good inhalation of whatever
pleasant feeling is nearest, and the expansion is a necessary consequence.

As we expand mentally, disagreeable brain-impressions, that in former contracted states were eclipsed by greater

ones, will be keenly felt, and dropped at once, for the mere relief thus obtained.

The healthier the brain, the more sensitive it is to false impressions, and the more easily are they dropped.

One word by way of warning. We never can rid ourselves of an uncomfortable brain-impression by saying, "I will

try to think something pleasant of that disagreeable man." The temptation, too, is very common to say to ourselves
clearly, "I will try to think something pleasant," and then leave "of that disagreeable man" a subtle feeling in the
background. The feeling in the background, however unconscious we may be of it, is a strong brain-impression,—all
the stronger because we fail to recognize it,—and the result of our "something pleasant" is an insidious complacency at
our own magnanimous disposition. Thus we get the disagreeable brain-impression of another, backed up by our
agreeable brain-impression of ourselves, both mistaken. Unless we keep a sharp look-out, we may here get into a snarl
from which extrication is slow work. Neither is it possible to counteract an unpleasant brain-impression by something
pleasant but false. We must call a spade a spade, but not consider it a component part of the man who handles it, nor
yet associate the man with the spade, or the spade with the man. When we drop it, so long as we drop it for what it is
worth, which is nothing in the case of the spade in question, we have dropped it entirely. If we try to improve our brain-
impression by insisting that a spade is something better and pleasanter, we are transforming a disagreeable impression to
a mongrel state which again brings anything but a happy result.

Simply to refuse all unpleasant brain-impressions, with no effort or desire to recast them into something that they

are not, seems to be the only clear process to freedom. Not only so, but whatever there might have been pleasant in
what seemed entirely unpleasant can more truly return as we drop the unpleasantness completely. It is a good thing that
most of us can approach the freedom of such a change in imagination before we reach it in reality. So we can learn
more rapidly not to hamper ourselves or others by retaining disagreeable brain-impressions of the present, or by
recalling others of the past.

V.

THE TRIVIALITY OF TRIVIALITIES.

LIFE is clearer, happier, and easier for us as things assume their true proportions. I might better say, as they come

nearer in appearance to their true proportions; for it seems doubtful whether any one ever reaches the place in this
world where the sense of proportion is absolutely normal. Some come much nearer than others; and part of the interest
of living is the growing realization of better proportion, and the relief from the abnormal state in which circumstances
seem quite out of proportion in their relation to one another.

Imagine a landscape-painter who made his cows as large as the houses, his blades of grass waving above the tops

of the trees, and all things similarly disproportionate. Or, worse, imagine a disease of the retina which caused a like
curious change in the landscape itself wherein a mountain appeared to be a mole-hill, and a mole-hill a mountain.

It seems absurd to think of. And, yet, is not the want of a true sense of proportion in the circumstances and

relations of life quite as extreme with many of us? It is well that our physical sense remains intact. If we lost that too,
there would seem to be but little hope indeed. Now, almost the only thing needed for a rapid approach to a more
normal mental sense of proportion is a keener recognition of the want. But this want must be found first in ourselves, not
in others. There is the inclination to regard our own life as bigger and more important than the life of any one about us;
or the reverse attitude of bewailing its lack of importance, which is quite the same. In either case our own life is dwelt
upon first. Then there is the immediate family, after that our own especial friends,—all assuming a gigantic size which
puts quite out of the question an occasional bird's-eye view of the world in general. Even objects which might be in the
middle distance of a less extended view are quite screened by the exaggerated size of those which seem to concern us
most immediately.

One's own life is important; one's own family and friends are important, very, when taken in their true proportion.

One should surely be able to look upon one's own brothers and sisters as if they were the brothers and sisters of
another, and to regard the brothers and sisters of another as one's own. Singularly, too, real appreciation of and
sympathy with one's own grows with this broader sense of relationship. In no way is this sense shown more clearly than
by a mother who has the breadth and the strength to look upon her own children as if they belonged to some one else,
and upon the children of others as if they belonged to her. But the triviality of magnifying one's own out of all proportion
has not yet been recognized by many.

So every trivial happening in our own lives or the lives of those connected with us is exaggerated, and we keep

ourselves and others in a chronic state of contraction accordingly.

Think of the many trifles which, by being magnified and kept in the foreground, obstruct the way to all possible

sight or appreciation of things that really hold a more important place. The cook, the waitress, various other annoyances
of housekeeping; a gown that does not suit, the annoyances of travel, whether we said the right thing to so-and-so,
whether so-and-so likes us or does not like us,—indeed, there is an immense army of trivial imps, and the breadth of

capacity for entertaining these imps is so large in some of us as to be truly encouraging; for if the domain were once
deserted by the imps, there remains the breadth, which must have the same capacity for holding something better.
Unfortunately, a long occupancy by these miserable little offenders means eventually the saddest sort of contraction.
What a picture for a new Gulliver!—a human being overwhelmed by the imps of triviality, and bound fast to the ground
by manifold windings of their cobweb-sized thread.

This exaggeration of trifles is one form of nervous disease. It would be exceedingly interesting and profitable to

study the various phases of nervous disease as exaggerated expressions of perverted character. They can be traced
directly and easily in many cases. If a woman fusses about trivialities, she fusses more when she is tired. The more
fatigue, the more fussing; and with a persistent tendency to fatigue and fussing it does not take long to work up or down
to nervous prostration. From this form of nervous excitement one never really recovers, except by a hearty
acknowledgment of the trivialities as trivialities, when, with growing health, there is a growing sense of true proportion.

I have seen a woman spend more attention, time, and nerve-power on emphasizing the fact that her hands were all

stained from the dye on her dress than a normal woman would take for a good hour's work. As she grew better, this
emphasizing of trivialities decreased, but, of course, might have returned with any over-fatigue, unless it had been
recognized, taken at its worth, and simply dropped. Any one can think of example after example in his own individual
experience, when he has suffered unnecessary tortures through the regarding of trifling things, either by himself or by
some one near him. With many, the first instance will probably be to insist, with emphasis and some feeling, that they are
not trivialities.

Trivialities have their importance when given their true proportion. The size of a triviality is often exaggerated as

much by neglect as by an undue amount of attention. When we do what we can to amend an annoyance, and then think
no more about it until there appears something further to do, the saving of nervous force is very great. Yet, so successful
have these imps of triviality come to be in their rule of human nature that the trivialities of the past are oftentimes dwelt
upon with as much earnestness as if they belonged to the present.

The past itself is a triviality, except in its results. Yet what an immense screen it is sometimes to any clear

understanding or appreciation of the present! How many of us have listened over and over to the same tale of past
annoyances, until we wonder how it can be possible that the constant repetition is not recognized by the narrator! How
many of us have been over and over in our minds past troubles, little and big, so that we have no right whatever to feel
impatient when listening to such repetitions by others! Here again we have, in nervous disease, the extreme of a
common trait in humanity. With increased nervous fatigue there is always an increase of the tendency to repetition. Best
drop it before it gets to the fatigue stage, if possible.

Then again there are the common things of life, such as dressing and undressing, and the numberless every-day

duties. It is possible to distort them to perfect monstrosities by the manner of dwelling upon them. Taken as a matter of
course, they are the very triviality of trivialities, and assume their place without second thought.

When life seems to get into such a snarl that we despair of disentangling it, a long journey and change of human

surroundings enable us to take a distant view, which not uncommonly shows the tangle to be no tangle at all. Although
we cannot always go upon a material journey, we can change the mental perspective, and it is this adjustment of the
focus which brings our perspective into truer proportions. Having once found what appears to be the true focus, let us
be true to it. The temptations to lose one's focus are many, and sometimes severe. When temporarily thrown off our
balance, the best help is to return at once, without dwelling on the fact that we have lost the focus longer than is
necessary to find it again. After that, our focus is better adjusted and the range steadily expanded. It is impossible for us
to widen the range by thinking about it; holding the best focus we know in our daily experience does that Thus the
proportions arrange themselves; we cannot arrange the proportions. Or, what is more nearly the truth, the proportions
are in reality true, to begin with. As with the imaginary eye-disease, which transformed the relative sizes of the
component parts of a landscape, the fault is in the eye, not in the landscape; so, when the circumstances of life are quite
in the wrong proportion to one another, in our own minds, the trouble is in the mental sight, not in the circumstances.

There are many ways of getting a better focus, and ridding one's self of trivial annoyances. One is, to be quiet; get

at a good mental distance. Be sure that you have a clear view, and then hold it. Always keep your distance; never return
to the old stand-point if you can manage to keep away.

We may be thankful if trivialities annoy us as trivialities. It is with those who have the constant habit of dwelling on

them without feeling the discomfort that a return to freedom seems impossible.

As one comes to realize, even in a slight degree, the triviality of trivialities, and then forget them entirely in a better

idea of true proportion, the sense of freedom gained is well worth working for. It certainly brings the possibility of a
normal nervous system much nearer.

VI.

MOODS.

RELIEF from the mastery of an evil mood is like fresh air after having been several hours in a close room.

If one should go to work deliberately to break up another's nervous system, and if one were perfectly free in

methods of procedure, the...